Le Vrai et le Faux
by Dream Writer 4 Life
Summary: She was secured to a chair in a stuffy, dusty cargo bay on a plane and instead of being tortured with the normal devices, she was being told how much the world didn’t miss her." Post-"Telling". A Dream Writer Experience.
1. Questions

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Title: _Le Vrai et le Faux_

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Author: Dream Writer 4 Life

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Rating: PG-13

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Genre: Angst with a tinge of Romance later

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'Shippers' Paradise: V/OC, S/V

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Spoilers/Timeline: Post-"Telling"

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Archived: FanFiction.Net, Cover Me, and SD-1. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive!

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Summary: "She was secured to a chair in a stuffy, dusty cargo bay on a plane and instead of being tortured with the normal devices, she was being told how much the world didn't miss her." Post-"Telling" fic with a Dream Writer Twist. A Dream Writer Experience.

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Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Period. End of story. Wait, no it's not! Keep reading! There's a very specific line from "Whisper" by Evanescence in here. See if you can find it. By the way: _Le Vrai et le Faux_ = The Truth and the Lie.

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Author's Note: [jumps on bandwagon] Dear Reader: I am writing this to you from my camping ground on the bank of De Nile. It really is quite lovely this time of year; if you haven't already, I suggest you hop a plane and get your ass over here. :)

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This Chapter: Syd is extracted and both have some questions.

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Suggested Soundtrack: "Hello," "Whisper," "Everybody's Fool," "Going Under," "Last Breath"…okay, basically anything off of the Evanescence CD. Goin' for angsty here.

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Le Vrai et le Faux

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Chapter 1: Questions

2 years.

24 months.

112 weeks.

730 days.

17,520 hours.

1,051,200 minutes.

63,072,000 seconds.

Not accounting for the exact day or leap years.

__

'Has there been a leap year?' She could not seem to recall. Oh, yes; 2004 had that extra day in February. _'Now that throws off all of my calculations!'_

How she was able to compute _that_ in her head _that_ quickly feeling _that_ overwhelmed was worthy of note; the question "what was the point of that?" popped into the back of her mind, probably somewhere near the base of her skull, because that's what was tingling at that moment. Whether that was a good thing was yet to be seen: the last time her head had tingled was two years ago right after she shot Francie — _'Allison'_ — and subsequently blacked out. Maybe it would happen again, she would pass out for another two years, wake up in Paris, and Vaughn would be divorced, ready and willing to marry her instead…

She could not tear her eyes away from the knothole in the floorboards where her gaze had rested. His voice had sprung tears in her eyes; she was fully aware that it was a voice that no longer belonged to her. His particular voice pattern had been the key to her heart, whether it be on a mission telling her where to go or merely saying his patented greeting of "hey". But now… now she had no idea how to treat him. He had a ring on a very specific finger, they were halfway across the world, and two years of her life were just gone.

Few four-letter words evoked strong emotions. Granted, there's love, good, evil, hate; but she never thought of "gone". At least, not until something — or someone — was gone. Then…Well, then it seemed somewhat like a swear or curse, damning everything to Hell with four simple letters. Language could mask the emotion: That Word in Spanish, German, French, Chinese, Arabic, basically in any other language, That Word sounds more elegant, more _full_, than it does in English. In her native tongue it just sounded…gone.

"Syd? Syd? Syd, say something. Please. I need to know you're really here."

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'No you don't!' She felt like screaming. _'Obviously you didn't those entire two years, twenty-four months, whatever that I was missing! You didn't need to know where I was then!'_ But she had more composure than that; instead she palmed her eyes with the butt of her hand, attempting to smooth over the tears, pretend they were not there. Her vision clouded up again immediately after she lifted her lids. She licked her lips with a tongue as rough as sandpaper: her entire body — let alone mouth — was parched and dehydrated. She had poured every bodily fluid into her tears, willing herself to shrivel up like a sun-dried prune in order to save herself from the awaiting agony. It was ebbing onto her consciousness, but when she turned to face it head on, it retreated back into the darkness. She had no protection against it. _He_ used to do that for her. _'Not anymore. He's someone else's protector now.'_

"I'm here."

That was not her voice. Her voice was usually strong, confident, assured, even, _stable_. That…That was the voice of a small child, unsure of her place in the world, unsure of the 'why' of it all. It was more primal, more gravely, yet still sounded innocent, small, and far away — as if she were commenting from behind a wall or a door. Like she was viewing this as a third person. Which was how she wanted things.

No first person.

It would hurt too much.

Too much for words.

She could feel his eyes on her; she always could. Whether it be across a crowded room, a conference table, or half-way around the world, she knew every time without fail when his eyes were trained on her. They made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and her heart both stop and pound like a jackhammer at the same time. Whenever he looked at her, she felt like she was an ant and he was a seven-year-old with a magnifying glass, tilting it at just the right angle so that she would be set ablaze. But not this time. This time the ant had a mode of protection: a mirror. It reflected the intensity elsewhere to spare herself; she was numb. Therefore there were no prickled hairs, no goosepimples; her knees were solid and heartbeat steady. She was subconsciously wrapping herself in a thick blanket of smog taken directly from the skies above Los Angeles. It filtered and sifted through things and acted like a bouncer, deciding what was suitable for admittance and…well, what wasn't.

Wait a second.

Los Angeles. That was her home.

Right?

"My home." It was more of a statement than a question (and, again, where did that voice come from?). She did not bother looking up from her oh-so-interesting knothole in the floorboards.

Vaughn seemed to be caught off guard. He shifted in his chair so that he was leaning forward onto his knees with his hands folded in the space between them. He, too, studied a spot on the floor, unable to look at her but wanting to all the same; he was damned if he did, damned if he didn't. The breath he took in rattled about in his lungs like the last bolt in a metal toolbox. Choosing his words carefully, he took what he hoped was a steady breath and replied, "We can't talk here. The CIA wants us back in the States as soon as possible. There's a car waiting outside to take us to the airport. We chartered a plane for you." Vaughn cringed immediately after he added that last sentence; he sounded hopefully repentant, as if that one stupid plane could erase her _two-year_ absence.

She heard it, too, but did not say anything. At that moment, all she wanted to do was find a bed, fall asleep, and wake up at Home next to Vaughn, the entire ordeal just an extremely bad dream. By Home she meant the warm, fuzzy feeling that bubbled up in her heart when she would walk out of the bedroom in the morning to find Vaughn trying haphazardly to make breakfast. As far as she was concerned, she did not even need the bed and the faux reassurance that it was all a dream; all she needed was for Vaughn to start _laughing_, throw that evil gold contraption out the window and exclaim, "Ha, ha! Just kidding! It's all a joke. Smile: you're on Candid Camera!" Then the secret cameraman would pop up from behind the door and Will, Francie, and her dad would reveal themselves from the insides of closets or under a chair. As long as it did away with the numbness, the titanic sense of shock that had coated her brain. She just wanted to wake up in love, at peace, and at Home.

"Syd?" Vaughn had risen from his chair and placed a hand on her shoulder; it was the first contact between the two since that decidedly one-sided hug when he first arrived. This seemingly innocent act sent fire radiating from the point of contact, but instead of being red-hot, it was ice cold — so immensely cold that it was hot to the touch. Whether it was her imagination or not was unknown. Syd looked up from her cozy knothole. For the first time in two years she met his gaze. For the first time since she had known him she could not read his emotions, could not tell what he was thinking.

And this scared her. This scared her more than she had ever been scared before.

In the past she had been able to sense everything from one glance, to see herself reflected back at her in those speckled green orbs. And now…Now she saw nothing. Just nothing. Black holes painted green had replaced the warm eyes that she had loved — still loved — and they were a poor substitute. She was frightened by what she saw — frightened beyond words — but somehow, from that one glance, she knew that there was more to come. Much more. She had lost her sense of self (and with it her hope) within less than a second; she could only imagine what learning about the past two years could do to her.

When she did not answer him he ventured again, "Syd? We have to go: the car's waiting for us." He squeezed her shoulder. A big mistake. She cringed and recoiled from his touch, shocking him to the point that he reflexively pulled back his hand. A shadow of remorse passed over her face before it settled back into its previous state of blankness. Rising wordlessly, she waited at the door for Vaughn to lead the way.

***

The trip to the airport was three of the most uncomfortable hours Sydney had ever spent. They rode in a black, non-descript van with windows only by the driver's and passenger's seats. In the back, two benches lined the walls and a chair was bolted to the floor in the middle. It was a van that was normally used to transport dangerous criminals: usually the benches would be piled with armed guards in full gear. Now they were empty save for Vaughn, sitting with his back against the driver's side wall. For "precaution" two other CIA agents had cuffed Syd's arms and legs securely to the chair. She could have sworn she had seen them before; probably as interns from Langely, she reminded herself. So as the two others climbed into the front and Vaughn raised the sound- and bullet-proof partition, Sydney sat and searched for the most comfortable position in the lousy excuse for a piece of furniture.

She could feel his eyes on her again. The shock was still firmly cemented in her consciousness, keeping the usual affects of his gaze in check. She wondered what he was thinking about, whether he was condemning her for resurfacing and ruining his new life or kicking himself for not having faith in her. Her numbness cracked ever so slightly, allowing a trickle of anger to seep in. She would show him what he had left behind. She slid her bottom as far back as it would go, straightened her spine, thrust her chest out, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin ever so slightly to give an illusion of defiance, confidence, and independence. Syd could not tell if he was buying her act of changing her composure: she did not exactly want to swivel her head and blatantly stare at him. And anyways, she would not be able to decipher his feelings she remembered, her heart sinking even lower. So she sat with her newly perfected posture wondering whether he was _really_ looking at her or if she was just tricking herself into believing it. She just did not trust her instincts anymore.

About an hour into the ride Vaughn broke the silence. "Syd, we really missed you. All of us: Jack, Will, Marshal, Weiss even. We just…missed you so much."

No answer was offered; she was planning on sticking to her guns and keeping the persona of a defiant rebel as long as this shock and numbness was going to stick around. She did not want to give him the satisfaction of letting him see her yet again with her guard down. The last time that had happened she lost two years of her life. So no answer for Mr. Married CIA Agent.

He sighed heavily before leaning forward upon his knees and trying again, "I need to ask you a few questions. First, did you know that you've been gone for two years? Do you know who took you? Did you go of your own free will? Do you—"

"First of all," She replied curtly, swiftly cutting him off, "I do _not_ appreciate my loyalties being questioned. You of all people should know that." Syd still stared straight ahead at the tinted partition, keeping her neck inclined at a ninety-degree angle. "Second, if you are going to interrogate me like a terrorist, at least have the _dignity_ to look me in the eye. Especially when you start jumping to insane conclusions." She admired her own brazened bravado in this situation, unsure exactly how long it would last.

Vaughn closed his eyes and ran a hand over his haggard face. After numerous attempts at side-stepping his relocation, he eventually was forced to scoot over to the only seat in front of her; it was usually reserved for the leader of the operation and was located with its back to the partition. Again, she would not answer any questions until he asked them while peering directly into her cold eyes. After a time, Vaughn aimed his eyes at hers and defocused them, unable to actually gaze into her icy depths any longer than he absolutely had to. "Did you know you were missing for two years? Do you know who took you? Do you—"

"Let me save you the trouble," Sydney interjected again, a sadistic grin raising a corner of her mouth. "I've been missing for two years. _You_ told me that. All I remember is unloading three shots into a person I thought was my best friend and then — oh gosh, guess what? — I blacked out. Sorry. That's all I know. End of story. No more questions please." She lifted her chin slightly higher as if to tell him to go away.

Apparently he did not get the picture because he tried to pry even more, causing her to turn her head away and stare at the wall to her right side. He sighed, ran his fingers through his tousled hair, and slid back to his original seat, holding his head in his hands and massaging his temples in an attempt to relieve tension that was internal rather than external.

***

Upon reaching the secluded airstrip, the two other agents unloaded their human cargo, keeping her cuffed and at gunpoint. Vaughn did nothing to stop her harsh treatment: she supposed that despite its deserted appearance, it was probably crawling with armed CIA agents ready to strike if the slightest hint of something possibly going wrong occurred. With the agents' assistance, she waddled towards the Concorde-sized charter plane and all four boarded.

Inside was a lush cabin complete with leather couches, tables, plush chairs, and even a small kitchen area. The morbid party continued on through the cabin, kitchen, and a hidden door into a small cargo area, located in the tail of the plane. There was one very small window on one side, another bolted-down chair similar to that in the van, and one crate directly in front of said chair. _'So much for treating me like the valuable, **loyal** CIA agent that I am,'_ She thought as they secured her to the chair yet again. Breathing was starting to become a chore for Sydney: the room was stuffy, humid, and dusty, obviously unused for quite some time. She hacked and coughed, her throat dry and scratchy, and even sneezed, having to wipe her nose on her shoulder for lack of anything else.

They had been out over the Pacific Ocean for a while and she had fallen into a light sleep (more out of boredom than anything else) when Vaughn finally joined her. The soft click of the door was what woke her; although if it had not the clatter of the tray he was carrying would have. He offered a genuinely apologetic smile as he reloaded it and set it down on the crate, leaving himself a place to sit as well. All that was on the flimsy metal were two bottles of water and two sandwiches wrapped in saran wrap. After being subjected to her inquisitive glare for a good five seconds he stated, "I figured you would be hungry, and Bronson and Anderson are snoring loudly, so I figured I'd join you. Plus, you really have no other way of eating; no one is supposed to uncuff you."

"Since when have you been one to follow the rules?"

He did not answer as he uncapped both of the water bottles, stood, and crossed the small space between them. Without asking permission, he set the lip of it against her own and gently tilted her chin upwards, coaxing the liquid to flow from the bottle to her mouth. She swallowed it greedily, downing half of the bottle before he even knew what had happened. He let her breathe before slipping her the rest of the bottle and then tossing the empty container back onto the tray.

As he began to unwrap one of the sandwiches she said, "I'm not hungry."

Vaughn paused and looked at her curiously. "But you need to—"

"I'm not hungry," She repeated, a bit more forcefully this time. Sydney had decided to drop the defiant rebel act and keep her options open: whatever personality she felt could possibly get the best results and most information would be used. Vaughn released the sandwich wordlessly and shifted his seated form so that he faced her. They were silent for a time, each trying to concoct the best way to say what was on their minds. Syd won the race. "It's my turn to ask the questions now."

A hint of surprise exhibited itself in his briefly arched eyebrows, but he did not object. Instead, he again leaned towards her with his elbows on his thighs.

She sat as she had in the van, though this chair was far from comfortable as well. This question was not as difficult, so she allowed herself to lock his gaze. "What happened to my home?"

He held her eyes with his and he answered without hesitation. "It was a mess, a complete disaster area. Will wanted to fix it up and sell, but I convinced him to keep it. I knew he would never forgive himself if he sold it without confirmation that…you weren't coming back. Plus, it was easily accessible. It would have cost too much to fix up your place, buy another, and adapt that to him as well."

Her brow furrowed and her eyes darkened. "His needs? Why? What happened? I seem to remember him in a bathtub and blood…blood was _everywhere_…lots of blood…" Just like Danny, she did not add.

His eyebrows knotted together and his gaze became distant: he was no longer looking at her but instead into a past that she was not a part of. "Will was stabbed in the stomach by Allison and left for dead. When I found him, he had already lost a substantial amount of blood. He was in and out of the hospital for a good year or more, being subjected to tests or undergoing surgeries. After about a year, a surgery went wrong and they damaged his spinal column. They couldn't repair it; now he's paralyzed from the waist down and confined to a wheelchair."

Silence dominated for a time while Sydney let the news sink in. Her only best friend that was alive was now scarred for life. _Because of her. It was all because of her._ But she could not let this get to her yet; there was still too much to learn to get so emotional so soon. So she shoved her guilt over Will's condition aside and moved on. "How's my dad? Is he all right? Is he still with the agency?" Syd was almost hesitant, afraid of the answer that she might receive.

Vaughn's composure relaxed and a smile cracked his serious façade. "Syd, your dad got promoted to Director of the task force to find you. Though he was briefly demoted after the force was disbanded, he was promoted to Director of the task force to find Sloane, Sark, and Derevko."

"So no one's found her yet."

He shook his head. "No, but Jack is doing just fine. He missed you so much."

Syd nodded mutely, biting her lip in dread. She did _not_ want to continue on with her intended line of questioning, but she needed to in order to keep her last thread of sanity in tact. She needed to know what happened to understand why it happened so that eventually — maybe, possibly — she could get over it and get some closure one day. "What happened to Francie's double? Did they ever find the real Francie? Is she alive?"

Vaughn could not meet her eyes, and that was all the answer that she needed. His voice grew soft and strained out of respect. "Francie's double died of blood loss before I got there." He had to take another deep, rattling breath before continuing. "They found Francie less than a year after you disappeared. She had been shot sniper-style in the forehead. Very clean, very fast; she didn't suffer, Syd."

She gave no response save for a dangerously quivering chin and runny nose (which she wiped again on her shoulder). This time, she had to take longer to regain her composure, to compartmentalize her complex feelings so that she could access or tap into them later. She was perilously close to reaching her capacity for hidden emotions, but she did not care. _She needed to know._ The shock was slowly starting to take over again, numbness whispering in her ear. It was easier to cope with the devastating news with a layer of shock and numbness to protect her. Once she was ready again, she had to think about the wording of her next question. She wanted a sufficient answer without too much unwanted information. Finally she gave up, closed her eyes and inquired, "Who is she?"

Sighing heavily, he began rubbing the back of his neck deftly with his fingertips, contemplating his answer. He, too, gave up trying to spare her details; this was not the time to coddle her. "Her name is Karen. She's from the Washington, D.C., headquarters. We met about a year ago and we've been married for three months."

"You said that you came back…Where did you come back from?"

His eyes glued themselves to a spot on the ceiling above Sydney's head. "When the task force to find you was disbanded, I put in a transfer request and Kendall sent me to Washington. That's where I met Karen." He twisted the ring about his finger subconsciously, twisting her nerves and heart with it. "I was her partner. She was a new recruit who had just finished some time at Langely. We didn't have time for a honeymoon right after we got married, so we were taking one now. That's when I got the call that they found you." He paused, choosing his next words slowly and carefully. "We didn't hit it off right away but I love her, Syd. I really truly love her."

Sydney nodded, having the physical ability to do nothing else. She had reached her limit and wanted to hear no more. She was secured to a chair in a stuffy, dusty cargo bay on a plane and instead of being tortured with the normal devices, she was being told how much the world did not miss her. But she had something else to say, one more thing before the glue had dissolved completely.

"Just tell me one thing: did you bury me?"

Vaughn closed his eyes in pain. "Yes. Yes, we buried you."

She nodded, biting her lip and drawing blood, and looked out the window, silently pleading with him to leave her in peace. He took up the tray of uneaten sandwiches and water bottles and left the room, hesitating at the doorway for a moment when he thought he heard his name.

When the door clicked behind him, she lowered her chin onto her chest and began to sob quietly.


	2. Answers

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Title, Author, Genre, Rating, 'Shippers' Paradise, Spoilers/Timeline, Archived, Disclaimer, Summary: The same. :)

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Addition to Disclaimer: I own the poems. They are mine. Do not steal!

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Author's Note: This chapter is basically what I thought really **_should_** happen in the first few episodes of Season 3. But then again, I'm campin' on De Nile right about now.

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This Chapter: Government conspiracy and my little detour down De Nile.

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Suggested Soundtrack: 

~ In the beginning: "Lose Your Way" by Sophie B. Hawkins, "Acoustic #3" by Goo Goo Dolls, "Letting Go" by Sozzi, "My Immortal" and "Hello" by Evanescence, "Even Angels Fall" by Jessica Riddle, "The Hardest Thing" by 98°, "The Art of Letting Go" by Mikaila, "Dear Lie" by TLC, "Pain" by Dream, "Hiccup" by P!nk, "Time of Your Life" by Green Day

~ In the end: "Feels Like Home" by Chantal Kreviazuk, "I'm a Believer" by Smash Mouth, "We're a Miracle" by Christina Aguilera

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Chapter 2: Answers

When the plane landed in L.A., the first thing the CIA did was throw Sydney into a federal cell. And conduct various tests (including an ocular scan) to determine whether she was the real Sydney Anne Bristow. During this time, the only three people who came to see her on a regular basis were her father, Vaughn, and Weiss. Jack Bristow frequented her cell the most, appearing through the three sets of gates once or twice a day. When Vaughn visited her, she was distant and unresponsive, her words clipped and purely professional. It was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears whenever his gold band caught the light and glinted mockingly into her eyes. And even though his visits evoked great pain — pain too strong to put into words — she craved them like an addict craves her substance. She could not explain it, could not rationalize or theologize the reason; maybe that was what miffed her the most about this situation. But no matter how firmly or how many times she told herself that the next time he came she would refuse to see him…somehow, it just would not work out that way.

During her stay in federal prison, Weiss became her wall, her pick-me-up after Vaughn's excruciating visits. He usually sauntered down that hallway as his best friend was leaving having a few hushed words with him before they parted ways once again. Eric would joke with her like absolutely nothing had happened, like those two lost years really were lost — in the sense that they had never occurred for either of them. Despite what was transpiring outside of her cell, they always had a light-hearted, _happy_, and CIA/work-free conversation. Those ten, twenty, thirty minutes a day were her refuge, the reason she bothered waking up at all. They were the reason she _lived_. Because everything else was closing in on her swiftly enough to asphyxiate her.

Will was refusing to see her. Despite Vaughn's hasty reassurances that it had nothing to do with her, that he just could not find time in the day, Sydney knew that his absence had _everything_ to do with her reappearance. Her former best friend had probably moved on with his life and had achieved the elusive closure when it came to her disappearing act. It was easier to think of it that way, she guessed, than to think that he simply blamed her for everything wrong in his life. Because that was her job, what she dedicated at least half of her waking day to doing.

In the duration of her time in federal custody, she had divided her alone time into three parts: Waking Part I, Waking Part II, and Nighttime. Depending on her mood, the Waking parts would be used to dwell upon different things. Sometimes Part I would be dedicated to self-pity and guilt, and Part II would be spent concocting theories about what could have happened during those two years. The nights were invariably spent thinking about the love of her life.

Michael Vaughn was usually lurking in the back of her mind no matter what she was doing, but he positively haunted her at night. Sometimes she would go so completely out of her mind that she would start screaming nonsense words at the empty walls and pace in a square around her cell. She did not care if anyone or everyone was watching her from the security cameras mounted in the corners high above her. In fact, once she used those to her advantage.

Her voice had become hoarse one day after a long laughing fit with Weiss, and she could not even begin her nightly tirade. So instead she stood in the middle of the room — in plain view of every single camera — and began mouthing her request in every language she knew including tapping her foot in Morse code and signing in American Sign Language. A minute or so later, a young agent rolled back the gates and handed over two legal pads and two pens; apparently her reputation preceded her. Grabbing at them eagerly, she had sprawled out on the floor and began to write. The next day during Vaughn's visit, she had hid the pads underneath the single blanket her dad had smuggled for her, but Weiss was a little late that day so she had taken them out again for a while until he finally arrived. She had left them on top of her metal table in the corner while she talked with Weiss, but when he left they were gone. Her only explanation was that Eric was told to confiscate them, but any further than that and her rationale grew hazy. Why would the CIA want her nameless, incoherent ramblings? Unless Vaughn wanted to laugh over how unhappy she was.

Because he was certainly happy enough.

Upon her insistence, Weiss had sequestered a small photo of his best friend and his new wife. Sydney knew it was probably a mistake and definitely wrong of her to ask him to do it, but she needed it. It only fueled her anger, her self-pity, and her despair to new lows. Every night during some point in her tempestuous tirade she would pull out the picture and direct her anger towards that. Every day some new wound would open up and the picture would eventually be the victim: their genuine smiles in front of a picturesque park backdrop seemed to be mocking her to such an extent that they _deserved_ to be blamed.

But everyone was still working on who was really to blame for the whole two-year-long ordeal. Her first week back was full of purely physical check-ups and tests to make sure that she had not contracted any diseases that could possibly be contagious to other agents. She had been quarantined in a completely sterile version of her cell for the first two days before they had confirmation that she was of no danger to others.

That was when the shrinks descended upon her as if attracted by powerful magnets. They talked to her, they tested her, they observed her, they tried everything possible to pry the repressed memories of the past two years without: A) cracking her head open with a crowbar or B) forcing her to undergo regression therapy. Nothing seemed to work so eventually Agent Kerr and Doctor Barnett teamed up to perform the latter upon Agent Sydney Bristow. Every other day (if one had asked her the _name_ of the day, she would not have been able to say) she had been personally escorted by Agent Michael Vaughn to the only room in the facility designated for that purpose. She was not clear on if he actually stayed and watched, but she had a sneaking suspicion that he did. She knew that his need to know what had happened to her was just as big as hers if not even bigger. So every other day after he visited with her he would guide her down the familiar path to the loathed room.

And they were starting to get somewhere, things were starting to uncover themselves.

Her future was upgraded to a slightly lighter shade of bleak.

After about a month in CIA custody, Sydney was officially released. But she was faced with a perplexing conundrum: she had nowhere to stay. Will was still refusing to see her, let alone speak to or live with her. Vaughn was out of the question, and she could not possibly impose on her father. To put another spin on the problem, her bank account, credit cards, everything that she could have drawn money from simply did not exist. Everything had been frozen and then transferred into another account that she could not obtain records for. So renting a place was completely out of the question. Instead of putting her up someplace or even designating her a safe house somewhere, Director Devlin insisted that she stay in her cell until she could come up with her own money. Besides finding this extremely suspicious, Sydney also saw this as extremely rude and ungrateful.

One particular day after a regression session, Sydney and Weiss were strolling back up to his desk. They were going to grab a bite before the main part of the Ops Centre closed, allowing them to get her back "home" before "curfew". The two were sharing a laugh over a bout of inappropriate innuendo when he suddenly stopped and tried to steer her down another corridor leading away form the bullpen. When she slipped passed him and into the almost-deserted room, she stopped cold. There was Vaughn sitting at his desk, deep in conversation with the brunette from the picture. As she stood there, dumbfounded, he rose from his seat, handed her a coat, and took her into his warm embrace, smothering her thin lips with his full ones. Her heart stopped, the world ceased to turn, the bottom fell out…All the cliches became suddenly, _painfully_ true. 

Weiss came crashing through the doorway calling her name. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware of his hand on her elbow, attempting to pull her away form the couple, who were now gaping at them open-mouthed. Sydney simply shook her head in disbelief; as long as she had not seen them together, live, unscripted, and in colour she did not have to believe it was true. Now that fragile snow globe of a reality had shattered; she had her answer.

Roughly shrugging off her friend's hand Sydney began running. She ran past the stationary couple, down the opposite hall, and out the front door of the CIA building. She did not know where she was going, but she knew she just wanted to be where no one else was.

***

She had no idea where she was, let alone how to get back to familiar surroundings. All she did know was that it was dark, she was on a beach, she was alone, the beach was deserted, she was alone, it was late at night, she was alone, she was sweaty and aching, and she was alone. The moon had just risen over the hills behind her…Hills…She must be really far from Los Angeles…The air was cleaner, too…_very_ far from Los Angeles…

Sharply cold seawater lapped softly at her bare feet (how did she lose her shoes?) and wet the cuffs of her jeans. Sand squished between her toes as she walked away from the churning waters. Her legs ached, her feet ached, and her heart ached; she needed a place to sit down. Standing just out of the reach of the chilly fingers of the ocean, she stood motionless and surveyed her options: sand, more sand, and a steep, jagged precipice on the shore side. None of these pleased her terribly. Turning towards the endless expanse of ocean, one thing struck her as odd. The tide was coming in, but it broke around a large boulder in the middle of the small cove. Without a second thought, Sydney ran into the water up to her waist and then started swimming towards it, not caring that the saltwater was positively destroying her clothes. Upon reaching it, she hauled herself up the slippery surface and sat hugging her knees staring out at the horizon.

The incoming tide rolled gently against the rock, the mist melding with the salty tears that were coursing down her cheeks. She peered out towards the craggy rocks that formed the boundary of the cove, breaking in one hundred-foot-long gap. The abandoned lighthouse, she guessed, was up on the top of the hill behind her, warning away ghost ships from this desolate harbour. Crashing swells that echoed in the cliffs' crevices were the only sounds. They calmed her and soothed away her anger but then served to strengthen her bitterness and despair. It was such a solitary, noble sound for such a solitary, ignoble person.

She was alone. She was finally and truly alone, both in the moment and the world. All faith and hope and goodness and will had left her, leaving an empty shell to be filled with bitterness, sadness, and indifference. Her moment of despair was so deeply profound that she knew it would not last only a moment, nor two years, twenty-four months, one hundred and twelve days. Its length was undetermined; like the sea and the sky that stretched out until they kissed in that thin line called the horizon, it looked as if it would never come to a close.

So she hugged her knees closer to her, resting her cold tired head upon them, and cried. Cried and sobbed and wailed and yelled and screamed and complained and whispered and mumbled and muttered and cursed and swore and bellowed and howled and shouted and shrieked at the injustice of it all. (_'What did I ever do to you, huh? What? Tell me! Tell me so that I can never do it again. Or I can do it so many times that you just get tired of punishing me! Aren't you tired of watching me slog through all this crap yet? It's the same thing over and over again, haven't you realized that? Betrayal, beloved's death, betrayal, beloved's death, betrayal, lose two year's worth of memories, beloved gets married to someone else…Why don't you change it up a bit, huh? _**Make me happy**_ for once! Or is that not in your master plan? One day of happiness filled my quota, right?'_)

The moon had reached its peak directly over her head when she finally had nothing left to cry. But she continued to despair silently, gazing out over the waters as if she might find an answer — to what, she did not know. She began to shudder violently: the incessant spray had kept her drenched and, combined with the brisk wind, was making her innards freeze as well as her skin. Her knees knocked and the chattering of her teeth were audible over the natural noise.

Suddenly, an object dropped down on her shoulders, but she was too far gone to care; she did not even look up. Syd knew it was a coat that had suddenly alighted upon her, and she also knew who the owner was...

"I looked for you everywhere." Vaughn slid down unsteadily and folded his legs under him, facing her and trying to capture her gaze. She refused to comply.

"Obviously not."

An exasperated sigh. "Everywhere you used to go; all your old places."

She looked him straight in the eyes, unwavering coldness radiating from her brown orbs. "I found a new place."

He did not know what to say, so he did not say anything; he sat there staring at his hands. The spray had settled in droplets that were running down his skin like veins — until they reached that band of gold. It inadvertently caught the moonlight and shone into Sydney's eyes. She did not even attempt to hide her wince; she angled her body so that she could not see The Ring if she looked straight ahead. Vaughn sighed. "Sydney, I—"

"No Vaughn," She cut him off emotionlessly. "You don't owe me any explanation. You…had the right…to move on." Each word was a thousand knives plunging into her still-beating heart.

"Syd, I really need to say—"

"Stop!" She commanded, willing the tears to evaporate directly from her tear ducts. "I _really_ don't want to hear anything — especially from you."

Vaughn grunted in exasperation, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her to look at him. The ring seared through his leather coat and into her skin. "Why won't you talk to me?"

Sydney widened her eyes in amazement, a drop escaping from the corner of one of them in the process. "I don't want to talk to anyone right now! Can't you see that? That's why I came here in the first place: so I'd be here and you'd be with _Karen_." She spat the name as if it were a venomous poison. But she was not searching for his pity; she was just…Actually, she did not know what she wanted. Things were just flying out of her mouth randomly in an attempt to block out whatever he had to say.

"Sydney Bristow, _I need you to listen to me._"

There was something — something in his voice — that gripped her, slapped sense into her and made her want to listen. What he had to say was more important than anything he had ever known: more pressing than espionage, than national security, even life itself. It was a matter of sanity, or survival. The same hostility and bitterness held her features, but Sydney's frozen heart softened almost imperceptibly. Suddenly her eyes were not so cold and her breath became more steady and deeper. Sydney wanted to hold on to her anger, despair, and bitterness because it was what sustained and fueled her; she closed her eyes in an attempt to cage the slippery emotions. She waited for him to continue.

"He took a knife

And twisted, twisted,

Twisted, twisted, twisted

'Til it would go no more

To the hilt

A momentary respite

But then another

Ragged

Rusty

Large

One repeats the same

Song and dance

Over and over

Again and again

'Til I'm ripped in half.

"He poured acid

And it burned, burned,

Burned, burned, burned

'Til there was nothing left to burn

The last drop dripped

Skin bubbled and popped

Like thin soap membranes

Caught on the plastic wands of children.

"He lit a fire

And it blazed, blazed,

Blazed, blazed, blazed

'Til it ran out of material

The last ember glowed

Charred, scarred

Seared, cleared 

Working like a microwave and 

Melting

From the inside out.

"He took a rope

And hung, hung,

Hung, hung, hung

'Til the last breath dropped from my lips

With a shuddering rasp

Purple in the face

Tongue lolling and lopsided

Looking more like a shade of

Crayon

Than a human face.

Oh, the power of a few

Choice words

Fueled by love," She heard him recite from memory, voice shaking with indecisiveness as if he was not sure about what he was going to say next. She gritted her teeth in anger but before she could say anything he continued, "Or how about this one:

"It has started: the

"Crumbling of my world. It's falling piece by piece

And I can't stop it. The

Need to breathe and the

Need to survive take priority and

Override any other thought.

They say that one minute of happiness

"Belittles a year of sadness…Yeah,

Right. At this moment, nothing could

Ever glue my world together again.

At least, with everything as it was Before.

That's how I will refer to things from now on: Before It

Happened and After the Fact.

Everyone is gone and now

"I am all alone.

"All of the trust, the trysts, and the truths are gone,

Murdered,

"Drowned. The former

Rock in my life has eroded, crumbled, not

Over millions of years as it

Was supposed to.

No.

It could never be that easy for me.

Never.

Get out of my head, get out of my head!

"Help me. Anyone.

Everyone. Someone. Just bring me to

Life and help me live, help me breath.

Pick me up and take

"Me where I belong.

Elevate my soul and keep me from crumbling.

"The first letters of every line spell out something: 'I cannot breath; I am drowning. Help me'."

Sydney threw off the arms on her shoulders and completely turned her back on him, shaking her head in disbelief. "Now you're stealing my writing, too. Is there any part of my life that you _don't_ want to destroy?"

Vaughn ignored her. "Don't pretend you didn't write these because of me."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"God, Sydney…! If I know…how it would affect you…Never imagined…I never would have…If I only knew…"

"Yeah, well, there's nothing you can do about it now. You're married to Her, and I know you won't break those vows. Not even for me," She added in a whisper. Then she raised her voice again. "You're better than that. And I don't want to break up a _perfectly happy_ relationship." Those knives were back again and they brought some friends as well. "What I can't understand is how you could manage to get over me in two years. Two years, Vaughn! Not even that long: you said you met her a year ago. God, you must really have a thing for the agents you handle. And no body…how could you be sure that I was…That I wasn't going to…" She trailed off into silence, too flustered to express her thoughts synchronously.

"I'm married…But I'm not married to Karen."

She internally rolled her eyes. Her brain did not get a chance to process that further before her mouth shot off. "Karen, Jill, Michele, Liz, Bob, Joe…What difference does it make? It's _somebody_! Names don't matter; we both know how easily _those_ can change."

"Syd, I'm married to you."

Her eyes flew open and she struggled to keep her back to him; most of her thought he was lying, that this was his half-hearted, cruel, and disorganized way of getting her back on his side. But, as always, there was a sliver of indecision: maybe he _was_ telling truth.

"What?" She had not even realized she had spoken. Giving in to the majority of her conscience, she turned around and gazed into his eyes, searching and pleading to find some shred of validity. The moon was directly behind him, a corona of white light encircling his head, shrouding his features in blackness. But his eyes glowed with pain, agony, and unshed tears, the strength and amount of which surprised her beyond description.

"_I_ am married to _you_," He repeated, the ring easily slipping off his slick finger. Reaching for her hand, he scooted closer and pressed the object into the centre of her palm. Sydney reluctantly turned it over in the dim light, trying to see if there was an inscription. Vaughn saved her the trouble. "It says '10/1: True Love'. I married a woman who everyone thought was dead. Do you know how incredibly hard that was, Sydney?"

She was still speechless, gripping the ring so tightly that she thought it would soon become welded into her hand. Her throat felt like it, too, had a band around it, and the band was slowly shrinking. The buzzing in her brain would not cease, and she was too disoriented to form coherent sentences. "How…What…Why…How…Huh?"

Vaughn clasped both of her hands with his own, squeezing the ring between them. The pain and suffering oozing from his eyes and knotted brow prompted Sydney's eyes to finally overflow again. "Before I explain everything, you must understand this. I love you. I always have and I always will: two years or two thousand years could never change that. I know we never really said it before so I'm saying it now. This finger, this hand, _this body_ has only ever been for you. I will accept — I will 'settle for' — nobody else. There could never be anyone for me but you."

Sydney did not know how to respond. Vaughn released her hands and moved to hug her; she let him, but this time it was she who was unresponsive. When he pulled away she finally mustered up the strength to speak. "Explain. Now."

***

He took an entire five minutes to compose himself, stabbing at his tearing eyes as if he were unaccustomed to stemming their flow. "What should I start with?"

"There's more than one thing that you lied about?"

Vaughn winced and began pulling on his earlobe out of instinct, trying to find a release for his nervous energy. Another minute or so passed as he sifted through his options.

She was beginning to think that he was not going to start again when he mumbled something. "What was that?"

"I said, 'I'll start with Will.'"

"You mean, he isn't paralyzed?"

"Oh no, he is," Vaughn reassured her. "But…he really did want to see you. We were forced to keep him away, though."

"But—but why?"

He sighed. "Let me finish first. Then I'll explain." She nodded, urging him to continue. "There is no Karen. Well, I take that back: she's a real person, but that's just her alias. She does work for the CIA and she does live in D.C., but she has a fiancé over there as well." The words were starting to flow in torrents, now that he was more confident and in control. He barreled on.

"There was actually no reason to keep you in a cell all of that time." He laughed shortly. "You could have officially requested to have been moved to a safe house or even put up in a hotel. Why didn't you?"

"I—I didn't k-know that you c-could," Sydney stammered out of both cold and surprise.

Vaughn shrugged his shoulders. "Well, it wouldn't have mattered: Kendall probably would have denied you flat out."

"What about my money? Where did it go?"

"Ahem," He cleared his throat and straightened his back, squaring his shoulders. "Um, I, uh, merged our accounts after I, we…You know. But don't worry," He added hastily, "I didn't touch your money. I was still holding out hope that you would turn up. If you didn't…well, then it would sit there 'til I did. But your credit cards were canceled. Dumb ass bankers wouldn't let me change them to my name. Thank God I gave up dealing with them."

Sydney chuckled slightly but simmered quickly upon seeing the pleased look on his face. "What about Weiss? Was he in on this at all? Please say he was just an innocent bystander."

Another heavy sigh. "No one involved in your case was an 'innocent bystander', Sydney. We all had our parts to play. Our stupid, goddamn parts." His face hardened like the rock they were perched upon. "He was the one who stole the stuff you wrote, but I guess you figured that out already. Will was supposed to analyze it, to see if you had inadvertently revealed something about where you've been. When he realized that it was too personal for anyone else to see, he reported that it was just incoherent rambling and handed it off to me. I memorized it all. That's when I realized I had to tell you the truth about everything. Before it got out of hand.

"I probably shouldn't be telling you this," He continued, staring at the hands tightly folded in his lap, "but Weiss was bugged during all of your conversations."

"What?"

"This sounds completely unprofessional, but what he did was at my insistence. I was living vicariously through Eric. I-I…I craved a real conversation with you, Syd. But you wouldn't talk to me, and I couldn't truthfully talk to you. Not at all. So as soon as I'd leave, I would run up to the surveillance room and just watch and listen to you two talk and joke and _be happy_. It-it made me happy, Syd, to know that even if it was just for a minute, you were happy as well. That what we had done hadn't completely ruined and broken you. It also cemented a conclusion I came to a long time ago: you are truly the strongest, most amazing, most wonderful, and most beautiful woman I ever have and ever will know. But that doesn't excuse my actions, and I don't' deserve your forgiveness for anything I've done. I'm just telling you my reasons so you don't have to beat yourself up over the 'why's and the 'how's of it all. I just hope you understand that I've done _everything_ I've ever done out of love for you."

He winced prematurely, positive that she would either verbally berate him…or simply push him off the rock.

Sydney mentally pulled out her automatic compartmentalizer and filed away all the confusion she was feeling at the time. After a few moments of thinking of anything else that could have been lied about she asked, "Is it time for the reasons yet, or is there more?" She had not meant for the sarcasm and the hostility to slip into her tone. Seeing him cringe definitely did not help her guilt.

Still averting his eyes he answered, "Do you want the short version or the long version?"

"Let's try the short first."

"The CIA made me do it."

"You've got to be kidding me. That's not an acceptable answer. I'll take the long version, thank you very much; I've got all the time in the world."

He gazed up at her from under his eyebrows. "I'm dead serious, Syd. Devlin and Kendall ordered us to lie about everything. Kerr and Barnett said that if we…upped the emotional ante…it could help us figure out where you've been. Apparently it's been proven that if the subject has been under emotional stress, it can either help the regression therapy extraordinarily…or it can immensely hinder it. Your father was hell-bent on getting the recovery process over with as fast as possible, so he decided to roll the dice. And see what we've got? The CIA now has so many leads that they don't know which one they should go after first! And it's all because of you! Isn't that amazing?"

She scoffed. "Yeah, but wasn't it at the expense of my sanity? My mental stability? I've said it before and I'll say it again: since when have you been one to follow the rules? What happened to the Michael Vaughn who would damn protocol, burn the rulebook page by page if he had to? What happened to the man who would do anything to save me, save us? Did he just die when I disappeared?"

"Syd, I've been breaking the rules since the moment I met you; what makes you think I stopped when you disappeared?! I've done nothing _but_ shun them for two years! Hell, I'm doing it right now; this is classified information, and I'm jeopardizing the success of your therapy by telling you! You have to realize that I'm being extremely selfish here. I couldn't stand to be away from you, to keep from touching or kissing you — let alone act out this charade — any longer. I thought I would go insane! So no, the Michael Vaughn you knew two years ago did not die; he just…got a little crazier." They both cracked small smiles, and his gaze met hers again as their hands crossed the gap between them and intertwined themselves.

She grinned stupidly down at their union. That was the hand that held his ring, and now it was nestled safely between their cold, wet flesh. She squeezed his hand to remind him of its presence. "Where's my ring?" Syd teased, gazing back into his eyes.

Vaughn's smile slowly disappeared. "It was buried in your casket. I-I honestly didn't know what to do with it. Everyone else thought that we had gotten married before you disappeared, so they assumed that the ring had disappeared with you."

"Wait a second. How did everyone else know that you…" She trailed off, unsure of how to finish. Suddenly, the prospect dawned on her. "You changed my last name, didn't you? You changed my last name and put 'Vaughn' on my headstone instead of 'Bristow'." He nodded silently, anguish reappearing in his eyes in the form of tears. Sydney smiled warmly, slipping her hand out of his so she could slide the band of silver back onto his finger. "Sydney Vaughn…Ugh, I should have stuck with my maiden name. What if someone called out 'Agent Vaughn!' and we both turned around to look? It would get really confusing."

Vaughn looked at her with confusion masking excitement. "Are you — Do you mean — You still—"

"Yes, _Michael_, I want to marry you. It's been four years: I've waited long enough."

The pair stayed silent for a time, content to watch the moon dip beyond the horizon, creating a silver walkway on the water that lead directly to their boulder island.

Sydney shivered again and this time he did not hesitate to pull her close, settling her between his legs and wrapping his arms around her from behind. A question abruptly popped into her mind. "If you weren't off gallivanting with Karen during my absence, then what _were_ you doing?"

"Looking for you," He answered soberly. "They had a task force for about a year; then Washington had us disband and bury you. But your father and I kept going, following every possible lead, and every time we were grasping at straws. You have no idea how frustrating it is to get your hopes up and then have your legs cut right out from under you. Will would have helped, but he was so drugged half of the time that he didn't know which way was up. But I never gave up hope, Syd. I never would have stopped looking for you. Never. When Weiss called to tell me that they found you…it was the happiest phone call of my life."

"Even better than when you called the hotel in Santa Barbara?"

And the pain was back. Why did she have to keep doing that?

"A different kind of better," He replied, hugging her even tighter. "And besides, we'll go to Santa Barbara for our honeymoon."

Sydney's cheeks hurt from smiling so widely. "Honeymoon…sounds about right."

***

"Syd, do we really have to do this? Can't we just get you another ring?"

"No way! I want _that_ one."

"Okay. You heard the lady: start digging." Groundskeepers for the cemetery began shoveling away sod and dirt in front of Sydney Vaughn's headstone. It was a day before their wedding and Sydney insisted on having the ring he had buried. So they rounded up three workers from the CIA cemetery's landscaping staff and set them to work.

It had been over a year since Sydney Bristow resurfaced. Their copious amount of leads had been wheedled down 'til there were very few left. Still insistent on obtaining the information, Sydney visited Agent Kerr and Doctor Barnett, much to the displeasure of Agent Vaughn. He did not exactly enjoy picking up the pieces of his fiancée every Thursday night. But they had survived by some miraculous feat and were preparing for their impending wedding, despite the obscenely morbid fashion.

"Tell them to dig faster, Vaughn; I want to get home," She whispered in his ear, her breath tickling his small hairs. She pulled away from his neck grinning from ear to ear. He slung an arm around her waist and barked an order to rush them along.

An abrupt whirring noise sounded from behind the couple, and they turned simultaneously to see Will rolling over the grass in his new motorized wheelchair. Syd's mile widened even more, dimples exploding, as she broke contact with Vaughn and raced to meet her friend. "Oh God, Will, I haven't seen you in forever! Are you out of the hospital for good now? No more surgeries or anything?" Will Tippin had been out of the hospital for less than a blink of an eye before a blood vessel near his spinal cord ruptured, sending him right back in. He had been in and out ever since.

Will shrugged his shoulders in earnest. "To be honest, I have no idea. I'm just trying to lie low until tomorrow: this is one event that I **don't** want to watch on videotape." Sydney had taped her 'birthday party' for him last year: all it consisted of was Syd and Vaughn chit chatting with cardboard cutouts and having frosting fights with the camera.

Vaughn gave a shout to grab their attention; apparently the workers had finished their ministrations. As Syd and Will approached the dirty casket, he undid the padlock and lifted the lid. Inside, laying up on the satin lining was a horribly decaying sprig of foliage and a slim silver band decorated only by a miniscule diamond. She angled it so she could read the inscription; it was the same as her fiancé's. She smiled up at him with such a glow that he wondered if she really _was_ a fallen angel. They shared a tender moment while Will looked on to a space only about ten yards away. Ignoring his friends, he nudged the lever forward and followed his line of sight.

Both of them peered after him, knowing where he was going but willing him to turn back all the same. But then something off in the distance caught Vaughn's eye: a flash of grey and black disappearing into a canopy of green. His subsequent sigh was a touch melodramatic. "I think you should go talk to him, Syd. I'll meet you by the car."

"But what about—"

"I'll take care of it."

She nodded and silently stalked off after her friend.

When he was sure she was absorbed in Will and their mutual grief-filled past, he began stealing his way across the cemetery, attempting to be as inconspicuous and camouflaged as possible, finally penetrating the curtain of leaves beneath the weeping willow. There he found—

"Jack." The man nodded curtly, not looking at his future son-in-law but at his daughter and her friend, mourning in front of a headstone. "I'm surprised you came."

"You said it was urgent," He replied matter-of-factly, dragging his eyes onto the younger agent. "I assumed it had to do with my daughter."

"It does." Vaughn knew it was useless to dance around the issue. "Rumours have been flying around lately about what really happened to Sydney." No response. "People have been saying…Jack, people have been saying that the CIA were the ones that organized your daughter's kidnapping, that took away _two years_ from her. That they did it because the government thought that our relationship was a threat to national security. Are they right, Jack? Are the rumours true?"

Mr. Bristow glared into Vaughn's eyes with a harsh, steely edge. "Tell Sydney I'll be at the ceremony tomorrow. I assume it starts at the same time." With that, the senior Agent Bristow calmly strode away with strong, measured strides that did not betray his age.

That was all the answer Michael Vaughn needed.


End file.
